gns.thegraveyardvultures-第7部分

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supposed　to　be　a　wink。　'Because　he　didn't　ask　for　it；　and　after　the　way　he　spoke　to　me　I　wasn't　going　to　offer　any　information。　I　don't　suppose　he　even　knows　it　exists。　I　expect　the　vicar's　forgotten　all　about　it；　too。'
　　
　　'The　Domesday　Book？'
　　
　　'Yes；　quite　an　interesting　record　of　parish　life；　piled　by　parishioners　in　the　last　half　of　the　last　century。　You　know；　snippets　from　newspapers　concerning　the　village；　and　a　few　handwritten　articles。　I　suppose　it　gave　them　something　to　do　on　long　winter　evenings　when　there　was　no　television　or　cinema。'
　　
　　'And　you've　actually　gol　this　book？'　Sabat　leaned　forward　intently；　his　pipe　forgotten。
　　
　　'Oh；　yes；'　Storton　beamed。　'It　lay　gathering　dust　in　the　vestry　for　years　and　one　day　I　decided　to　bring　it　home　and　have　a　read　at　it。　It's　upstairs　in　my　bedroom。'
　　
　　'May　I　see　it？'
　　
　　'But　of　course。　I'll　go　and　fetch　it　for　you。'
　　
　　Sabat　tensed；　his　whole　body　suddenly　a　car　with　the　choke　fully　extended。　He　paced　the　old…fashioned　drawing　room　listening　to　the　clergyman's　shuffling　footsteps　going　upstairs　and　across　the　floor　of　the　room　directly　above。　It　seemed　an　eternity　before　Maurice　Storton　returned；　carrying　a　large；　stained　and　faded　leather…bound　exercise　book。
　　
　　Sabat　took　it　from　him；　his　fingers　trembling　as　he　turned　the　pages；　hope　that　flared　and　died　and　flared　again。　The　pages　were　a　crazy　jumble　of　unrelated　subjects；　some　pasted　newspaper　cuttings　that　had　yellowed　with　age；　articles　in　copper…plate　handwriting　that　needed　to　be　deciphered　slowly　and　carefully。
　　
　　'It'll　take　me　hours　to　go　through　this；'　he　muttered　at　length。
　　
　　'Then　take　it　with　you。'　The　other　was　struggling　to　get　his　pipe　going　again。　'Quite　frankly；　I　haven't　had　much　success　with　it^　my　eyesight　isn't　what　it　used　to　be。　But　I'd　be　glad　if　you'd　let　me　have　it　back　because　it's　church　property　and　just　suppose　the　vicar　suddenly　remembered　its　existence。'
　　
　　'Of　course。'　Sabat　rose　to　his　feet。　'If　I　can　get　an　uninterrupted　few　hours　alone　in　my　hotel　room　I　should　be　finished　with　it　tomorrow　and　I'll　drop　it　back　to　you。'
　　
　　'A　terrible　business。'　Storton　shuffled　to　the　door　to　see　his　visitor　out。　'Let　us　hope　that　now　the　police　are　here　these　vile　people　will　leave　our　churchyard　alone。'
　　
　　'Perhaps；'　Sabat　smiled　and　hoped　that　the　coven　would　return　to　St　Adrian's　churchyard；　it　was　his　one　chance　of　getting　to　grips　with　them。　But　for　the　moment　they　seemed　to　have　vanished　into　thin　air。
　　
　　Perusing　the　Domesday　Book　proved　to　be　a　far　bigger　and　more　irksome　task　than　even　Sabat　had　anticipated。　Dozens　of　cuttings　and　entries　featured　church　fetes；　the　appointment　of　church　wardens；　vergers　and　vicars。　He　resorted　to　his　pipe　again；　wondering　if　he　was　wasting　his　time。　Then　he　saw　the　faded　handwritten　entry　in　purple　ink；　every　letter　carefully　fashioned　by　the　writer；　and　headed　Heresy　Trial。
　　
　　A　date　had　been　inked　in　the　margin　…　1871。
　　
　　Sabat's　spine　tingled　and　a　tiny　shiver　ran　up　and　down　it　when　he　picked　out　the　name　William　Gardiner。　Suddenly　everything　was　clicking　into　place。　It　read：
　　
　　The　shame　of　this　village　is　something　which　will　not　be　lived　down　for　many　years　to　e　following　the　Crown　Court　trial　of　William　Gardiner；　possibly　the　first　heresy　trial　to　be　heard　in　England　for　two　centuries。　The　charges　were　brought　after　the　said　man　was　seen　to　be　holding　blasphemous　rites；　totally　unclothed；　in　our　own　sacred　churchyard。　Mr　Gardiner　had　lived　in　the　village　since　childhood　and　was　known　to　be　an　atheist　in　spite　of　the　efforts　of　the　Reverend　Longhorn　to　bring　him　into　the　fold。　A　bachelor　who　lived　alone　in　Primrose　Lane；　Mr　Gardiner　was　a　loner　and　rarely　mixed　with　the　parishioners；　although　he　was　known　to　drink　at　the　'Dun　Cow'。　On　witnessing　the　obscene　participation　in　unholy　rites；　the　Reverend　Longhorn　advised　Bishop　Lacey　and　charges　were　duly　brought。　The　Magistrates　Court　mitted　Mr　Gardiner　to　the　Assizes　but　on　April　30th　a　jury　found　him　not　guilty　of　heresy　and　Judge　Wilkinson　acquitted　him；　and　in　addition　reprimanded　the　Church　for　wasting　the　court's　time　on　an　outdated　although　still　viable　charge。　Mr　Gardiner　returned　to　live　in　the　village　in　spite　of　the　feeling　against　him。
　　
　　Sabat　was　tense。　The　acquittal　dated　April　30th　。　。　。　Walpurgisnacht；　the　time　when　the　evil　forces　were　most　powerful。　It　was　too　much　of　a　coincidence！　Had　the　powers　to　which　Gardiner　paid　homage　in　the　dark　hours　e　to　the　rescue　of　their　own　kind　in　a　court　of　law？
　　
　　Sabat's　pipe　was　dead　and　he　chewed　hard　on　the　stem　as　he　flicked　over　more　pages　of　the　Domesday　Book。　Church　meetings　。。。　the　acquisition　of　a　tract　of　land　joining　the　existing　cemetery　had　been　consecrated　。　。　。　Oh；　Christ；　there　had　to　be　something　else。　There　was！
　　
　　This　time　it　was　a　yellowed　square　cut　from　the　local　newspaper　and　dated　November　7th　1880。　It　was　headed　Deaths。　His　eye　followed　down　the　list　of　names　in　alphabetical　order。　'Gardiner；　William。　Died　October　31st　aged　50；　suddenly　after　a　stroke。　The　funeral　was　held　at　St　Adrian's　Church；　November　4th。'　Nothing　else。
　　
　　Sabat　closed　the　Domesday　Book　with　a　loud　snap。　His　eyes　were　bright　and　there　was　a　half　smile　on　his　face。　This　was　it；　the　missing　link　in　the　recent　necromancy　in　St　Adrian's　churchyard！　William　Gardiner　had　practised　black　magic　and　had　been　freed　by　a　jury　on　Walpurgisnacht。　He　had　died　on　Hallowe'en　night。　Evil　bones　had　been　buried　and　now；　after　over　a　century；　they　had　been　dug　up。　Why　and　by　whom？　The　answer　to　the　first　question　was　only　too　obvious：　Gardiner's　remains　were　powerful　magic　and　were　being　used　to　mune　with　the　dark　forces。　But　until　Sabat　found　the　answer　to　the　second　question　there　was　no　way　of　knowing　what　evil　would　be　unleashed　on　this　village。
　　
　　He　stood　up；　crossed　the　room　to　where　his　small　suitcase　stood　and　opening　it　took　out　a　length　of　string；　some　chalk　and　a　silver　chalice。　The　pentagram　was　vital　for　his　own　safety　for　tonight　his　astral　body　must　go　forth　and　scour　the　countryside　if　these　modern　necromancers　were　to　be　found。　And　during　every　second　that　he　was　away　from　his　earthly　body；　Mark　Sabat　would　be　in　dire　peril。
　　
　　The　early　evening　sunlight　glinted　on　the　sluggish　waters　of　the　winding；　narrow　river。　The　banks　were　sheer　but　the　protruding　roots　of　overhanging　trees　offered　a　precarious　hold　for　anyone　foolish　enough　to　climb　down　to　the　water。　Likewise；　these　same　roots　extended　below　the　surface　and　often　impeded　the　progress　of　debris　floating　downstream；　items　of　cast…off　clothing；　a　treadless　tyre　。　。　。　or　a　drowned　corpse！
　　
　　Detective　Inspector　Plowden　stood　on　the　bank　below　a　spreading　willow　tree　and　hoped　that　he　wasn't　going　to　have　to　clamber　down　there；　he'd　always　had　a　secret　fear　of　deep　muddy　rivers　even　though　he　was　a　paratively　good　swimmer。　A　childhood　terror　he'd　never　shrugged　off；　a　lurking　thought　at　the　back　of　his　mind　that　the　murky　current　might　hold　something　slimy　and　dangerous。　Like　an　alligator　that　had　escaped　from　a　reptile　house。　Logically　there　was　almost　five　million　to　one　against　such　a　happening；　but　he　didn't　like　these　sort　of　rivers　any　the　more　for　that　reasoning。　And　when　he　set　eyes　on　the　dead　body　which　the　frogman　had　dragged　up　from　the　depths　he　decided　that　the　alligator　odds　had　been　considerably　reduced。
　　
　　Plowden　chewed　on　his　lower　lip；　reached　for　a　cigarette　but　thought　that　the　taste　of　tobacco　might　make　him　throw　up。　His　stomach　churned　and　he　tasted　something　sharp　and　acid　in　the　back　of　his　throat。
　　
　　'It's　a　girl；'　the　matter…of…fact　dapper　Sergeant　Hurst　at　his　elbow　felt　that　somebody　had　to　say　something　and　thought；　at　least　I　think　it　bloody　well　is。
　　
　　A　group　of　plainclothes　detectives　helped　to　lift　the　body　up　the　bank；　a　white　limp　thing　covered　with　algae　and　other　water　weed　like　some　hideous　evil　mermaid。　They　laid　it　down　on　the　grass　and　the　head　lolled　to　one　side　exposing　an　open　gash　where　the　throat　had　been；　a　cavity　that　teemed　with　some　species　of　feeding　beetles。
　　
　　'Christ！'　the　frogman　removed　his　mask；　grimaced；　'I've　found　a　few　in　my　time　but　nowt　to　beat　that。　The　fuckin'　rats　must've　thought　Christmas'd　e　early！'
　　
　　'Shut　up！'　Plowden's　tension　crackled　as　he　forced　himself　to　kneel　beside　the　corpse。　God；　to　think　he　had　to　get　close　to　a　thing　like　this；　touch　it　I　He　almost　snatched　his　fingers　away；　it　was　like　the　feel　of　a　dead　reptile。　The　hair　was　matted　into　a　mud　ball；　some　of　it　torn　out　by　the　roots　like　an　angry　gardener　who　had　gone　berserk　with　a　patch　of　squitch；　you　couldn't　even　tell　the　colour　of　the　strands。　Open　eyes；　Plowden　resisted　the　urge　to　close　them；　they　seemed　to　be　staring　at　him。　The　frogman　was　right；　rats　had　been　feeding　on　the　flesh；　gnawing　it　right　down　to　the　bones　in　places　and　that　hole　in　the　stomach　was　where　they　had　gone　after　the　entrails。　Raw　tripe；　Plowden　nearly　spewed　at　the　thought。
　　
　　It　wasn't　his　job　really。　No　sir！　He　was　conducting　an　enquiry　into　black　magic　worship　and　the　desecration　of　graves。　This　was　a　straight　forward　case　of　drowning　that　the　boys　in　blue　could　look　after；　consult　the　missing　persons　file；　just　a　matter　of　elimination　and　then　identification。　There　shouldn't　be　any　problems。　The　CID　were　looking　for　a　missing　skeleton；　not　a　fresh　corpse；　they　couldn't　waste　valuable　time　on　this。
　　
　　He　leaned　back　on　his　haunches；　decided　he　could　manage　a　cigarette　after　all。　He'd　have　to　hang　on　here　for　a　while　until　somebody　came　to　relieve　him；　then　he'd　get　back　to　the　task　of　finding　that　skeleton。　No　need　even　to　look　at　that　revolting　corpse　anymore。
　　
　　'What're　those　marks？'　The　frogman　was　kneeling　down　stabbing　a　finger　at　the　dead　girl's　forehead。
　　
　　'Rats；　I　expect。　。　。　'　Detective　Inspector　Plowden's　voice　died　away。　He　hadn't　meant　to　look　again　but　his　policeman's　training　had　directed　his　gaze　automatically　back　to　the　corpse；　picked　out　a　couple　of　deep　indentations　that　had　gouged　the　flesh　and　penetrated　the　skull　i